Spare Not The Rod
by PersonOfDisinterest
Summary: The boy thinks himself a man. A little old fashioned correction is in order.


Patroklos could not fathom his predicament. He had lost, him! And to a woman no less! The very thought inflamed him, made him writhe in anger as he tried to claw back his pride. But his sword and shield lay dashed beyond his reach and, no matter how he struggled, the enchanted blade binding his wrists behind his head held fast. He was going nowhere soon. The tall woman walking a slow circle around Patroklos assured him of that.

"Release me, this instant," he demanded. "I will not suffer this treatment!"

She came to a stop in front of him, pale green eyes rising to take in all of him. The woman's gaze was sharp and critical; Patroklos felt like he was being studied. She finally lifted her eyes to meet his and without a spoken word expressed cool dissatisfaction. Patroklos snarled and fought against his bonds, but along with his hands the enchanted blade snaked down his thighs and coiled around his ankles. The woman held the hilt in her gloved hand, a smoothly rounded emerald pulsing with light at its centre. She folded her arms beneath her buxom chest and watched him. Short locks of silver-white hair falling across her eye did not hide the look she fixed him with. Like he was a child, nothing more.

"You're in no position to be making demands."

The woman's voice was strong and uncommonly deep for her sex. Yet still her clipped, aristocratic tone was unmistakeable; she was of noble heritage. Her attire was a clear suggestion of that fact, if nothing else, intricately tailored in complementing hues of royal purple that hugged to her figure. Patroklos didn't care. She had not respected the rules of engagement, had waged her battle from afar rather than fight toe-to-toe with him like a coward. And every second that he remained wrapped in the woman's arcane clutches humiliated him further.

"Release me, whore," he spat, fuming.

She merely cocked a thin, silver eyebrow. Her left hand came up, the entire arm sheathed in golden armour. Patroklos hissed as metal pricked underneath his chin, the woman's gauntlet extending her fingers into long, sharp needles. He winced despite himself as she exerted pressure and tilted his face upwards. The taller of them, the woman scrutinised him once more before clicking her tongue.

"Ill mannered boy," she said. "Your mother should be ashamed of herself."

Patroklos sprang forward - or tried to at least, for the elongated sword-whip held him in place. For all his strength he could not overpower the woman's unnatural weapon and the feeling of impotence only grew as she cooly observed him. How dare she hold him against his will! How dare she insult his mother! Impulsive, enraged, Patroklos spat - quite literally - in the woman's face. He gloried in a moment of savage joy as a glob of spittle hit her cheek.

Her reaction was to not react at all. The woman did not flinch or blink as he spat on her, she only removed the glove from her right hand and used it to wipe her cheek, her cool gaze all the while fixed upon him.

"Spare the rod, and the child shall be spoilt," she spoke with unerring , pinching the soiled glove between thumb and finger, the woman dropped it onto the ground between them. Patroklos' eyes followed it all the way down, and that was when a stinging slap sliced straight across his face.

"My name is Isabella, of House Valentine," the woman told him as Patroklos reeled from the force of the blow. "You will remember my name, for I am going to chasten you as your mother clearly did not."

"How dare you," Patroklos began, seething as his vision popped with white spots of light. A second slap silenced him, the back of Isabella's hand glancing across his cheek. She did not acknowledge that he had even spoken at all, tugging down on the hilt of the sword-whip.

Patroklos winced as the segmented blade pressed into the skin of his wrists and the muscles in his shoulders tightened with strain. Effortlessly manipulating the posture of his body, Isabella bent him forward at the waist. Patroklos tried to turn his head to follow the woman as she stepped out of his view. Before he could even ask, he felt something grip the waistline of his breeches. That something was a hand, and without ceremony Isabella pulled them down past his knees.

Chill evening air raised the fine hairs on his buttocks, wholly exposed to the elements. It took a long moment for Patroklos to register what had just happened, and by the time he did his face was already reddening. He was naked from the waist down, privates on display for all to see. The dirt road leading into town was frequently used and it was only due to the late time of day that a traveller had not happened upon them already. But should they, Patroklos would be found trussed up and at a woman's utter mercy. He hissed furiously as Isabella positioned herself at his side, moving in close to slip an arm around his middle.

"What in seven hells do you think you're doing? Unhand me - argh!"

His sudden cry was one of surprise, rather than pain. His right buttocks stung without warning and Patroklos belated realised the woman's hand was the culprit. She...she had just spanked him, a grown man! How dare she -

_Swat!_

Patroklos jerked forward. Now his left cheek stung and this time he registered the pain, a brief flare of white hot sensation that blossomed outward, tingling down towards the back of his thigh. Isabella's palm was warm against his skin, and her fingers curved to sink into the meat of his ass.

"Your buttocks are ripe for punishment," she commented, lightly squeezing his flesh, "soft and full. This is how I know you have not experienced the rigours of discipline, thus I will teach you."

Isabella struck him, hard, and Patroklos clenched his teeth as a gasp tried to escape his lips. His jaw ached when she struck him again, a small whine coming from his throat as pain bloomed across his buttocks.

"I will hear you cry before I am finished with you," Isabella told him, punctuating her words with yet another blow. The clap of flesh meeting flesh rang through the air.

Patroklos had not yet lost his defiance. "I will _not_! Nnngh!"

The woman's strike in response was even sharper, if that were possible. Patroklos' body instinctively tried to bend away, his bonds making his posture increasingly awkward, but Isabella only pulled him back upright with the arm curved around his body and struck him once more. His knees bent, hips pushing forward as he tried to escape the woman's punishment, but her open hand only found him again, and again, and again, and _again_, until Patroklos writhed in her grip and his voice burst from his lips.

"Stop it!" he cried, vision swimming with moisture. "Stop!"

Isabella ceased. Gasping, he felt the strength in her arm as she pulled him against her. The soft fullness of her breasts pushed against his arm and he could smell hints of perfume as she leaned forward, her lips brushing against his hair as she murmured in his ear.

"You behaved like an insolent little child, so I'm going treat you as one," she told him, and he felt her hand slowly caressing his buttocks, a dull sting prickling his flesh. "Do you know what a child will do whilst being chastised? He will beg his mother to stop. But a good mother will know that he has not yet learned his lesson. And so, she will continue."

Patroklos' eyes widened. "No, please -!"

But Isabella had already begun and with each blow Patroklos did cry out, squirming and writhing to get away from her, for the all the good it would do. But her chastising hand followed him relentlessly, striking with consistent rhythm and setting his flesh alight. Patroklos howled as though a hot poker was pressed to his buttocks, knees trembling and all but giving way as Isabella struck him time and again. His eyes were leaking tears, the taste of salt on his lips as they tracked paths down his cheeks. His muscles were tightly strained against the enchanted sword-whip holding him effortlessly in place, stripping him of every sense of pride he had left. And all the while the damned woman murmured in his ear, pressing her heavy bosom against Patroklos as she leaned close to taunt him.

"Deep down you relish this, don't you, boy?" she told him, pausing for a moment to massage his searingly hot buttocks. "Deep down you have craved the harsh yet fair discipline of your mother's hand. It is a pitiable oversight she made in failing to regularly chastise you in this fashion."

Patroklos pushed out the words through heavy breaths. "Don't you dare, talk about my moth - owww!"

Isabella spanked him, and then again, harder and faster. Pain was Patroklos' entire world and tears dripped off his chin to splash the discarded leather glove on the ground. He didn't realise how fortunate he was that she had not kept it on. He didn't have the time to consider it. Each of Isabella's blows was a hot lash that would have crumpled him had she not been holding him up. He howled and begged and it was as though she only struck him harder for it. A primal instinct consumed his thoughts: to flee. He was desperate to get away, knees rubbing themselves raw against each other as his bound legs tried to work themselves free. But he couldn't run; he couldn't move. He was utterly powerless and wholly impotent. In the moment, physically squirming as blistering pain assaulted his senses, pride was sacrificed.

"We have so many years of punishment to make up for," Isabella told him, when he cried out for all the world to hear and begged her to let him go. "Settle down. Let mother take care of you."

"You're not - my mother," Patroklos retorted, wincing hard as he spoke.

Isabella whispered sweetly into his ear. "Then let us pretend that I am."

His head hung low when she finally decided that she was satisfied. It was an unconscious action as Patroklos tried to hide his tears and shame. His buttocks were red hot and he trembled when the woman caressed them slowly, kneading his sore flesh. He bit into his lower lip as her fingers pressed into the meat of his bruised cheeks.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" Isabella asked him quietly.

Patroklos sniffed and didn't reply.

"Answer me," the woman said, and accompanied the instruction with a lash of her hand.

"No," Patroklos forced out, managing to yelp and growl at the same time.

Isabella moved to stand in front of him, an eyebrow arched. "No? Then what is _this_?"

Patroklos closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as the woman reached down and wrapped her hand around him. It was understatement to say that his cock was hard; his manhood was so stiff it was painful.

"Which part of that aroused you, hmm?" Isabella asked, beginning to slowly move her hand along the length of his thick shaft. "Do you enjoy humiliation at the hands of a woman, or was it the fantasy of an intimate experience with your mother, being bent over her knee and thoroughly chastised?"

Once again, Patroklos did not reply. He did not trust himself with words, lest he say something he could not take back. He breathed a little more heavily as the woman stroked him, her soft, warm flesh wrapped around his twitching cock as she waited for an answer. His gaze was fixed on her large, pale breasts, cupped and pushed together by the bodice of her velvet purple corset. They popped out from between the folds of her jacket, the garment straining to contain them. Balls achingly tight as he stared down at her chest, all Patroklos craved now was release. Isabella tilted his head up with a finger at his chin, meeting his lust-fogged eyes and seeming to recognise the desperate need in them.

"I told you mother would take care of you, didn't I?" she said softly, tilting her head to regard him from beneath the silver-white locks of hair shading her eye. "Do you want her to continue?" Isabella asked. "Would you like mother to take care of you with her lips?"

Patroklos trembled. Isabella let her hand fall to his chest, trailing down to his stomach. She slowly squatted before him, spreading her thighs as she sat back on her heels. Her plump lips were painted to match her attire, and they parted ever so slightly as she looked up at him.

"A mother will take care of her son, in any way she must," Isabella spoke, stroking him, "even when he has become a man."

Patroklos groaned from his throat when she leaned forward and, maintaining eye contact, blew lightly on the engorged crown of his manhood. His hips bucked towards her mouth in response.

"You want this, don't you?" Isabella asked him, and staring down at her full, luscious tits and deep cleavage sitting directly underneath his cock, Patroklos only had one way to reply.

"Yes," he growled, and a bolt of pleasure thrummed through him.

"It's a shame I don't play with little boys, then," Isabella replied.

Patroklos stared, dumbfounded, as the woman stood to her feet, pulling up his breeches along the way. Her cool green gaze never left his as she carefully tucked away his hard, throbbing shaft, mindful not to allow the merest smear of pre-cum to soil her hands. He continued staring when Isabella took a step back away from him, sweeping a critical, dispassionate eye over Patroklos from head to toe before clicking her tongue.

"Should you try to follow me, I will strip you naked and parade you through the streets," the woman told him, and with a gesture loosened the enchanted bonds of her sword-whip. With a distinct metallic snap, the weapon reformed itself, and Patroklos fell forwards onto his hands and knees. Isabella walked around him without another word, as though he had not existed in the first place.

Patroklos stared blankly at the ground as the click of the woman's heeled boots faded into the distance, humiliated and smarting something fierce from behind. His throat was tight and his lips dry as he throbbed between the legs. Patroklos remembered every last moment of his chastisement, the feel of an unrelenting hand striking him again and again till he squirmed and squealed; heaving breasts pushing into him as a strong voice of maternal authority dismantled his pride and defiance; her hot intimate touch and the promise to take care of him...

The boy swallowed with some difficulty before reaching into his breeches to pull out his cock. He indeed remembered her name as he tentatively pictured her bending him over her knee, chastising him as a good mother should. He whispered it as he stroked himself to completion.


End file.
